


Greensleeves

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Classical Music, Denial of Feelings, Geralt tries to be a Bro and help Jaskier get the girl, Greensleeves, Jaskier | Dandelion Sings, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Songfic, addendum i have now edited, but there is no girl, fashion - Freeform, he wrote the little mermaid he can write greensleeves too, no beta we die like men, so much fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: When Geralt crosses paths with Jaskier in the spring, the world is dressed in green. Quite literally. Everyone everywhere is wearing green, and it all comes down to a song Jaskier has written that, to his mortification, has become popular throughout the Continent. It's torment, being forced to preform the song over and over again and have his heart broken anew. But who is this Lady Greensleeves the people say Jaskier is so maddeningly, heartbrokenly in love with? At the baron's wedding party, Geralt is determined to find out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 121
Kudos: 1088





	Greensleeves

Queens, kings, and all the noble gentry would be dressed fine at the party, and the world would be all a-glitter with their sequined skirts and vests, as well they should be, belonging to such a dazzling company. But dressing up fine and peacocking round a haughty party of high-nosed highbrows was not Geralt’s idea of a good time. He’d rather be left just as Jaskier had first found him: alone, brooding in a dark corner. But since Jaskier had found him and adopted his company—or _accosted,_ more like—he’d found himself inexplicably roped into many such undesirable situations, and more often than not, it was a velvet rope he employed.

“Can’t you ever give a concert someplace quieter?” Geralt complained. Jaskier made enough money to travel by playing in inns and pubs; why go rubbing elbows with lords and dragging _him_ into it? Especially when Jaskier had slept with the wives, fiancés, and mistresses of a number of the lords who were always certain to attend.

“I can’t very well say no to them,” Jaskier replied. He hummed as he examined himself in the mirror, holding two doublets back and forth beneath his chin. “When a nobleman sends an invitation, going to all the trouble to _find_ you on your travels, you can’t turn your nose up at him. And think of the pay! And there’ll be good wine, better company, and a banquet of food all free for me and whatever guest I might bring along,” he added with a wink. “So you might have to strongarm a couple angry lords. Most of them will be too mead-merry to recognize me. And anyway I haven’t stepped out of line in a long time—I’m sure most of them have forgotten all about me, or at least they won’t be angry enough to cause a scene.”

“Three months isn’t a long time, Jaskier.” It was probably less than that, even. Geralt sighed, remembering the affair with the Countess de Stael.

“You can hardly blame me for that one; the countess pursued me under false pretenses. She knows very well that I’m out in the country, hearing nothing at all about city engagements. And she kissed _me_ , not the other way round.”

“Countesses aren’t for kissing before marriage,” Geralt replied, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “That’s a good way to lose a tongue.”

“A good way to _use_ one, rather. What a shame, diving into a marriage without one single kiss. Every beautiful lady deserves a fleeting romance before being locked and knocked up: the more scandalous and secret, the better. And a man needs his own adventures as well.”

Jaskier settled on the brown brocade coat, done up with gold twist. He pulled it over his shoulders with a satisfied tug, smiling at Geralt through the mirror. “And for that reason,” he said, bending to rustle through his bag, “It is not only a kindness you’d be doing to come along with me, but an obligation to yourself, to experience a wide range of adventures in all places!”

He popped up and held his arms wide. Dangling between his hands was a stylishly embroidered green shirt. “Tadaa! One must dress the part. It wouldn’t do for you to trade bruises with a duke dressed in your armour. You’d be putting him at an unfair disadvantage in his frills and laces. Come, put these on and be quick, won’t you?”

Geralt caught the garments as Jaskier flung them blindly back, grabbing them from his bag. It was nearly too much. Geralt had already been bathed and brushed, scrubbed head to toe and made over like a prized and polished pony. He looked at the shirt, the jacket, the trousers, and grimaced. They were rich in color, and he’d be sure to stand out, especially now in late autumn when everyone was dressing in warm colors and brocade, as Jaskier was doing now. _Like a jolly green elf_ , he thought. But the fabric was soft, and expensive, and quite clearly tailored to his size. As if he hadn’t seen Jaskier sneaking his spare shirt from his bag and scurrying off to the tailor’s only days before. All this preparation to guilt him into following along. And it unfortunately worked. Every time. Especially when Jaskier threw in a promise to slip some coin to the waitstaff to keep his mug always well filled at each event.

So Geralt relented. With another sigh, he stripped himself and dressed carefully in the fine clothes, even as he imagined snagging the buttons or rending a tear so he might be excused for the evening. It’d be satisfying, if only to see the pout of indignation it produced. When he finished, he turned around for his appraisal.

Jaskier was smiling like a drunken loon. “You make it look dashing!” he declared. He hurried forward to push Geralt before the mirror, running his hands over his shoulders to smooth out the jacket. It was white with gold embroidery, and it made him very noble, if a beacon. “I say, you’re very handsome in that, even if I _did_ dress you myself. Come tomorrow I daresay everyone in the city will be running to their seamstresses, ordering shirts, dresses, and coats all with your lovely green sleeves! Yes, you’ll set a trend; I’m sure of it, though I doubt if anyone would half compare to how stylishly you wear them.”

He saw the cuffs dangling unbuttoned and trailed his hands down to fasten them. “Do you like the feel of it? I’ve been paid forward a quarter of the lot, so I splurged a bit. Thought you might like something nice.” He paused to admire his work, to admire Geralt, before turning away to collect his lute case. “Better to sweat in satin in a banquet hall with free drink than in linen in the pub where you pay,” he concluded.

Geralt grunted. It was nice enough, he had to admit. Even so, he felt silly in satin. Throw a horsehide on an ass, it’s still an ass, and he was sure he’d look one tonight. But Jaskier’s deft touches added, perhaps, a little dignity. Looking in the mirror, the man reflected did not look as awkward as he felt. Put-upon, yes. Gruff, certainly, but not like an ass. The green leant an otherworldly frame to his yellow eyes, but for a change, he did not look quite hostile. Maybe handsome was the appropriate word. He let himself believe it.

It was with an embarrassing start that Geralt tore away from the mirror. Jaskier had cleared his throat, already leaning poised in the doorframe of their room, lute by his side, ready to set out. He had a smug little curl to his lips as he watched Geralt retreat, perhaps having seen the thoughts rolling around in his head. How very catlike for the songbird. But if he did catch Geralt at an odd moment, he never said anything about it. There was no teasing on the walk to the venue, nor on the homeward trek. In fact, Jaskier did not mention the clothes again until the end of the night when Geralt shed them and crawled into bed, stomach full and head drowsy with wine, content to have spent the night simply watching and listening to Jaskier play, with not one scorned lord in sight. Then, Jaskier had bent to retrieve them, fold them nicely over the back of a chair before himself climbing into bed.

“You really looked delightful,” Jaskier whispered, snuffing out the light. “Gorgeous—I promise. I’d have bought three more shirts just like it gladly if I knew how well you made them look, but I know I’d never convince you to wear them. All the same, thank you for tonight.”

“Hm,” Geralt mumbled, eyes already closed and heavy with sleep.

“Really. Finer than all the lords and ladies. A vision in green sleeves.”

“I’m not taking them with me come winter,” Geralt said, still refusing to open his eyes, but wanting the final word. He heard Jaskier chuckle from the opposite bed.

“There’s room in my bag,” he replied.

“Do what you want.” And that seemed to finish it.

Jaskier didn’t speak another word, even as Geralt lay awake, listening to him hum under his breath for another hour. It’d be their last night together before the snow sent them their separate ways in the morning. He had smelled winter in the air, and he knew the time had come. So as Jaskier composed, sure he had the room to himself owed to Geralt’s unconscious state, Geralt secretly listened to take with him one last song before the season turned.

Geralt spent the winter in Kaer Morhen, training with his wolfpack while Jaskier went off to teach his seasonal lecture at Oxenfurt, as was his habit. Geralt could hardly imagine he was qualified to teach anyone anything, or to settle down long enough to toil over papers and marks, but come spring, Jaskier told such a lot of convincing stories about university life that he had his doubts. Jaskier could easily talk away the winter months in a lecture room, that he could believe—but rambling about anything instructive or sensible? As hard to believe as the existence of a golden dragon. Perhaps harder.

When he set off on the Path again in springtime, he headed west toward Redania, sure to bump into Jaskier as always, wandering his jolly way east. He took a few jobs in scattered towns along the way: a few ghouls and smaller beasts. Nothing too large had awoken yet and wandered close to civilization, or else civilization had not yet gone wandering too deep into the thawing woods.

At first, he hadn’t noticed. There were not enough rural folk who had the coin to spend on frivolities like fashion. But in the back of his mind, he might have remembered there being maybe one or two ribbons and caps and things in the same color than was usual. Then, as he passed through the streets of one of the larger cities, it was impossible _not_ to notice.

Green was everywhere.

Every other woman was dressed in green skirts. They wore green hats with carnations and zinnias, roses, chrysanthemums. Well-bred gentleman wore the flowers pinned to their jackets or set in buttonholes. Ties, scarves, ring stones, necklaces—there was green wherever he looked. It was certainly popular enough in spring, but not so _early_. Was there a festival on? Who had the time or motivation to change their wardrobe so early? And why so uniform? It unnerved him to say the very least. There was so much of it everywhere. He almost didn’t spot the waving figure among the sea of green, standing on tip-toes in the street.

“Geralt!” Jaskier almost sang his name, so happy he was to see him. He jogged over and hopped to a stop at his friend’s side, reaching out to pet his stead affectionately. “And dear Roach. Just in time! You always have a knack for showing up just when I want you. I hope winter was well for you.”

Roach nipped at his fingers, equally glad to see him. Geralt, however, was frozen to the spot as he caught his first up-close look at Jaskier since winter parted them. He looked him up and down, his mouth creased in a mix between confusion and disgust. Whatever greeting he had in mind was lost to the wind. “What,” he asked, “are you _wearing?”_

Jaskier looked down at his own clothes, then a sheepish pink crawled up his neck from his open collar. He picked at the cream ruffles of his sleeves: an act so uncharacteristically self-aware that it gave Geralt pause.

”It’s—hem! Well, it’s the fashion now and all. You know that part of what I do is dressing with the trend. Can’t have a plain bard, nor one out of fashion. Wouldn’t look good in court.”

Under Geralt’s discerning eye, he continued to fidget. He ran a hand up his jacket arm and Geralt took note of the iridescent green beading that ran along it. There were, of all things, beetle’s wings sewn into the pattern, forming round flowers under his shoulders, and more in two framing rows down the front. He looked a vision of spring, though his face suggested over-exposure to the summer sun, so quickly it began to turn red under scrutiny.

“Would you stop staring, _please?”_ Jaskier hissed. “You’ve seen me dressed in much louder clothing before. There’s nothing here to gawk at.”

“The fuck there isn’t. Did a maid taint a dye vat at the laundry or did someone spit on a sorcerer’s cloak? Why is everyone in green?”

Jaskier ran a hand over the back of his neck, looking at the bustling crowd of people to which Geralt pointed his thumb. “Oh, are they still at that? I guess I haven’t noticed,” Jaskier said, not at all convincing.

Geralt raised a brow. Even Roach looked unamused at his side.

Jaskier dropped his arm and his act. He groaned, slouching in the street as if he carried a basket of heavy trade goods on his back, headed to market, instead of nothing but his jacket. “It’s been the trend all winter,” he confessed, “since mid-December. They dress modestly at the academy most of the time, so I hadn’t been in the right company to take notice of the fashions until it had already caught on at large, or I’d have desperately tried to influence them another way—and I _have_ the influence, to my recent dismay and discovery.” He sighed, but straightened upright again. He crossed his arms, scowling at the general population as if they’d done him a particularly strong offence. “I must say, I’m surprised. I would’ve liked my other ballad, _Doubleheart_ , to have been more influential, then I might get doublets for cheaper when I got a mind to change. But alas; it can be difficult to tell what the public will take to.”

“Other ballad? Do you mean this has something to do with one of your songs?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” he replied airily, as though it wasn’t something great to have written a ballad so popular as to change the stylings of an entire city, never mind all the rest. He looked at Geralt from the corner of his eye. Though the embarrassment and annoyance had subsided, there was still the trace of a light flush in his ears. “Have you not heard it?” he asked quietly.

Geralt had heard many songs on the road, not that he paid enough attention to name them. There were plenty of bards and drunken patrons who liked to fling a chorus or two of Jaskier’s more well-known songs here and there, and he was familiar enough with Jaskier’s musical technique to recognize them, even new ones. He’d often heard a song copied in early spring before he met with Jaskier and heard it from the source, it having spread in winter. But this time, there’d been no song that stuck out to him in particular as belonging to Jaskier.

“Not that I know,” Geralt answered.

A smile tugged at Jaskier’s lips. Whether he was glad of the chance to introduce it himself, or for relief that Geralt would not be tired of hearing it was impossible to ascertain. “ _Greensleeves_ , I called it.” Jaskier coughed, focusing on Roach rather than looking Geralt in the eye. He patted her snout, rested his forehead against her soft coat and closed his eyes. “I can’t go a day without hearing someone in the city hum or whistle it. Even when I visited the pub in the last, smaller town, someone was singing it. I know it sounds like false modesty to complain about success, but I assure you, my mortification is entirely genuine and excusable. Though I must admit it has its perks. Since ordering this, I’ve gotten twice my usual tips,” he said, turning for Geralt to admire his new doublet, though it was not a whole-hearted, enthusiastic turn. It was business-like and stale. He dropped his arms at his side afterward, scuffing the cobblestone street with his boot.

Geralt nodded his head up the road. “Walk with me while you talk. I’d like to get Roach to a stable for some rest.”

Jaskier nodded and adjusted his pace to match.

“Setting trends, getting tips—what’s the trouble?” Geralt couldn’t imagine Jaskier hated the color green, and he never complained about other bards fetching a few coppers with one of his songs before. He could see no reason why Jaskier should look so displeased. _Miserable,_ he corrected. It put all his old pouts and speeches of dying broken-hearted and dramatic to shame, and with a fraction of the effort. This was authentic, indisputable melancholy, and he dripped with it. Geralt could smell it radiating off him in waves like perfume. It made him uneasy.

“They’re convinced I have a lover.”

Geralt had been braced for the worst. In the minute before Jaskier spoke, he imagined there were severe accusations of plagiarism, or that Jaskier had been knighted for something he’d not really done and guilt was gnawing at him night and day as people wore his colors in celebration—ridiculous things. For a moment, the thought had even entered his mind that he’d returned home to take his place as Viscount of Lettenhove, and the green was in celebration, though they were much too far from his estate for any such fanfare. He’d feel ridiculous saying such thoughts out loud. Every so often, he was glad he did not have Jaskier’s unfortunate habit of speaking his mind.

Geralt scoffed, partially at himself. “You’ve had many lovers. What’s so special about this one?” He imagined it well: Jaskier flinging his hands toward the heavens, ready to sing of sparkling sapphire eyes, long dark lashes, curling auburn hair and all the grace of the angels in a pair of pretty, pearly, prancing feet in satin lady’s slippers.

He braced for it, long since tired of hearing such lofty descriptions. He’d been only too glad in the summer when Jaskier had fumed about the latest and last encounter with the fickle countess, rather than sigh and weep for her loss. It had been a wonderful change of pace, especially since Jaskier had not been to bed with a partner for quite some time. Before then, he was sure there’d be some maid around the corner waiting for Jaskier to fall madly in love with. It had been so long since he’d played Geralt’s ear off about some flighty beauty met under moonlight. The anticipation made him itch.

Jaskier bit his lip. They passed under an archway, and he found the comfort in its shadow to respond. “The fact is, I _don’t_ have a lover, but they’re convinced otherwise,” he confessed. They stepped out into the sun again, though his eyes were downcast. He stared at his boots as they walked together. “I … I _do_ have someone—an object of affection, but I’ve never had a sign that anything might come of it. That much is reflected in the lyrics. It’s a sad song, very bittersweet, and they’re always requesting it. It’s an audience of wistful sighs and dreamy eyes and all the makings of poetry, but I don’t enjoy a moment of it. Not really. How can I when people are taking such delight in forcing me to recount my deepest sorrows?”

It was astonishing how strongly the sentiments echoed in his tone. Geralt had never known Jaskier to react so poorly to one of his own songs; not even the ones he tore up and threw out. He walked a little closer, listening intently.

“I didn’t meant to preform it at first. I was drunk at a pub on my way to Oxenfurt, having myself a bit of a silly cry. It takes a few drinks to make me a sad drunk, but I’d run into some friends along the way and we’d had ourselves a party. I took up my lute and started to play, deciding to drown myself in my sadness for the evening.

“Well, one thing lead to another, and the song got around. I was getting requests for it every stop of the way. I had to take a holiday from teaching in January because one marquisess wrote so often asking for me to come play for her. At one time there were as many as three letters a week, and the faculty grew tired of fending off her queries on my behalf. Suffice to say, after that performance it stuck in the public consciousness. Someone took over my lecture and I was travelling again, staying in stately homes, playing for parties large and small.

“And all the while,” Jaskier bemoaned, “They were making eyes at each other trying to puzzle it all out. ‘Who?’ they were thinking, so loudly I could almost hear it: ‘Who among us is the Lady Greensleeves?’ They gave this phantom a title, you see. And _then_ it became a delicious game. A lady would make a spectacle of herself, showing up to dinner in a green dress with flowing sleeves. Soon a quarter of the ladies at a party were dressed the part, giggling behind their fans trying to convince themselves, their friends, and their beaus that they were the elusive, desirable Lady Greensleeves! And it caught like wildfire. Soon enough, everyone was dressed in green!”

Jaskier took a deep breath and wobbled his head pathetically against Geralt’s shoulder. “I know it’s all in good fun. People so like to feel special, like they’re in on a secret, or that they might _be_ the secret whispered about throughout a party, but they unintentionally mock my pain.” He tilted his head back so his cheek rested on Geralt’s shoulder and he might smile up at him. “I’m glad to see you again,” he said. His smile was soft, unburdened. “It helps, now that you’re here. I’ll do my best now not to mope. A day or two in your company, and I’ll be myself again, right as rain.”

He spoke cheerfully once more, but Geralt knew better.

“Oh, this way.” Jaskier stopped Geralt before the inn and tugged against Roach’s reins. He pointed up the main road, toward a large manor gate. “No sense in wasting your coin, especially so early in the year and with so much travel ahead. I’m finishing up a contract tonight for a week’s entertainment at the lord baron’s estate. Roach will be well cared for without a cent of charge, and my room is plenty big enough for the both of us. The bed fits four shoulder to shoulder, with enough room left over for a horse between if you prefer not to leave her in the stables!” he joked.

Geralt allowed himself to be persuaded, and his heart softened a bit at the smile he received in return. And just like that, Jaskier was prattling on in his usual way, describing the wonderful service and care with which he’d been attended during his stay. He talked about the comfortable bed, the views of the baron’s modest garden, and the excellent food. In fact, he’d been spending so much time in the house, he hadn’t had time to explore much of the city. That was when he’d gone out for a walk and stumbled upon Geralt in the street. He was speaking so excitedly it was remarkable he was not out of breath be the time they reached the gate.

Jaskier politely ordered Roach to be stabled and for Geralt’s things to be brought up to his room. Inside, he asked for a bath and light meal to be made ready as well, “For I doubt if you’ve had a _proper_ bath all winter without me to see to it,” he griped, rubbing and subsequently tossing a greasy lock of Geralt’s hair over his shoulder.

“It’s for the baron’s wedding party,” Jaskier explained, flinging open the door of his guest room. He flopped into a comfortable chair with a grateful sigh. “A week of festivities. I like to think he’s flaunting his title. It’s still very new to the family, the name so squeaky clean and free of scandal that hardly anyone cared to learn it until recently. I think I was hired to entice some of the more familiar families to accept their invitations, poor man. Don’t feel too bad for him, though; he’s made plenty of friends since the wedding day.”

Geralt set his swords down in the corner by the fireplace and removed his heavy armour. He stacked it neatly and put everything together. As he bent, he caught the shine of Jaskier’s lute leaning against the wall. He walked over to it and picked it up, happy to see it as well maintained as ever. It was one of the things he looked forward to most when winter was over: listening to Jaskier’s music.

“Will you be playing again tonight?” he asked.

Jaskier grumbled somewhere behind him, his head in his arms. “Yes. At least six verses of Greensleeves, no doubt.”

The repeated mention of the song and Jaskier’s misfortune did not sit well with him. He leaned the lute back where he found it and joined Jaskier, sitting in another chair across the way. Lady Greensleeves … Jaskier was not one to withhold his bursting affections, but he hadn’t said a word about the lady in question the entire conversation. He was curious, loathe to admit. Was it really so hopeless he couldn’t let himself talk about it?

“Tell me about her.”

“I can’t tell you about her; there’s no _her_ to discuss,” Jaskier snapped.

Ah, so it was denial. That usually came toward the end of Jaskier’s romances. He was lucky then, to not have to listen long to this talk. He was relieved. In many ways, he was relieved. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his neck comfortably and closed his eyes.

“Is it so hopeless?” Geralt asked, hopefully.

Jaskier spoke in a small voice, one very tired with unspoken longing. “Quite. I’m afraid I’ve tried and tried for far too long. Little touches, flirting, earnest affection. I’ve polished boot and tack and paid every special attention possible that I know short of saying ‘I love you’ but nothing has come of it. I’d offer a kiss if I wasn’t so afraid of losing the one good thing in my life that’s lasted this long.”

Geralt opened his eyes, frowning. “How long has it been?” He’d never known Jaskier to have a consistent infatuation. Had they met in the autumn, or in the winter? But he felt sure there’d been some longer affairs in the past, lasting many more months. Had he been around and not noticed? Was it so very secret, even to him?

“Years,” Jaskier confessed.

Geralt felt something tighten in his chest. “You deserve better than that.” It came out quickly, angrily. Jealously. “I’d give up, find someone better.”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, I could never give it up. I’ve devoted the better half of my life to this love and its pursuit. I’ll take it to my grave one day, even if I go on to marry and sow my own brood in time. It was my first real, true love. I’ve grown too fond of its ache.”

Geralt lowered his hands, hugged them across his chest. He looked at Jaskier who was lounging in his chair, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His eyes were shining in the late light pouring in through the windows. “You’re an idiot,” he murmured.

“I am. Gods above, I am: the biggest of them all. But what else can I be but devoted? One day soon, I’m sure I’ll break. I’ll go mad from longing, and then I’ll gather up whatever pathetic courage I can, and I’ll go leaping with my heart in my throat and arms open wide to plant a kiss at long last on hi—”

“Sir?”

There’d been a knock at the door. A member of the house staff stood with Geralt’s bags at her side. “If it pleases you, a tray has been brought. There’s a bath being drawn presently in the adjoining room as well. It ought to be ready by the time you’re finished.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jaskier replied. He stood to help her with the bags as he wheeled in a cart with a simple spread of fruits, cheeses, and cold cured meats.

“They sent up a _small_ tray only, I’m afraid, on account of the feasting. They’re busy preparing downstairs for it now. It’ll be only two hours before it’s served, and the party begins in an hour yet.” She curtsied apologetically. “Forgive the presumption, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for anything more. There’ll be plenty of appetizers while the gents and ladies are mingling to tide you over. I wish I could do more, but we’re all a flurry below.”

Jaskier put on his most winning smile and did a bob at his waist. “It’s lovely, thank you dear. I’m sorry to have troubled you so soon before the party. Give my condolences to the rest of the staff, if you get the chance.”

She curtsied once more and assured him she would with hurried thanks before rushing off to see to the bath and whatever other preparations were going on.

“I requested the room closest to the bath,” Jaskier said, nodding towards the wall. “It’s just next door if you want to pop in.”

“Will you—” Geralt stopped. It was such a routine between them, he’d somehow expected it to be the same, even if they weren’t tucked away at some inn, that Jaskier would come with him to the bath as always. He missed those fingers in his hair, massaging and attentive. More than that, he missed the closeness he could only steal in those small moments.

Jaskier was looking at him expectantly.

But Geralt couldn’t ask. “Will you save some for me? When I get back.” He pointed toward the tray, though he wasn’t quite as hungry as he’d been before.

“It’s all for you,” Jaskier replied. “I knew you’d be hungry. You always are about now. I won’t touch a morsel, so hurry back before I get lonely.”

Geralt nodded. That anticipation plucked at his heart, made it warm, but he still was left feeling cold as he left the room. The bath wouldn’t be ready, but he’d already made it clear he was going out. So he elected to oversee the filling of the tub, much to the maid’s discomfort.

His first thought when watching her shake a handful of salts into the water, was that Jaskier did it differently. In addition, upon scenting the bath, she dripped more scent than he was used to, and did not first offer to allow him to sample them and decide for himself what he liked. When he was finally left alone, he found that the smell of the bath was too strong for his senses, and there was not even the noise of the maid’s bustling to distract him from it. He decided to make quick work of cleaning himself, which turned out to be a sore disappointment and gruff affair.

A few minutes in, there was a knock at the door. He perked up at the interruption and called, “Come in,” thinking that Jaskier had changed his mind after all and come to keep him company. But it was only another servant.

“Your companion instructed me to leave these for you,” he said, leaving a stack of clothes by the door with a short bow.

Geralt gaped at the closing door and the clothes left behind. As if Jaskier had not seen him dress a thousand times before; now he was leaving clothes for him to change in another room? After a strange burst of outrage, he saw the practicality of it: he’d have to redress in his travel-clothes to return to the room if he didn’t want to wander dripping and naked in the open hall. Even so, there was something so sterile about sending a servant to deliver the clothes. Something so very impersonal. And not at all like the Jaskier he knew.

Geralt sank beneath the water and exhaled, feeling the bubbles rise up and burst through the surface. He tried to think of everything he said since reuniting with Jaskier, which was by no measure a difficult task. He hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary, but Jaskier was acting more distant than usual. Hadn’t he said he’d been _glad_ to see him? Yet he didn’t show it.

Less than an hour together and Geralt was missing him so much worse than he had in the wolf den. There he had his brothers to distract him. It was harder to ignore Jaskier when he was only a room away, especially since it felt as if Jaskier were ignoring _him_. Why so clingy? So pathetic?

Geralt rose to the surface and took a deep breath as the water trickled down his face. The Lady Greensleeves was the answer. Jaskier’s attentions were elsewhere. Geralt hadn’t even the privilege of his full attention for the sum of their first hour reunited, and that greeting hadn’t been as enthusiastic as any he remembered. He’d come at a bad time. If he left before the party, he wondered if he’d even be missed. Would there be a leftover thought for him amid the tangle of anxieties and broken-hearted romantic cries in Jaskier’s mind?

He scrubbed at his scalp and growled, not really washing it, but trying to scrub the thoughts from his head. It was better when Jaskier wasn’t so doe-eyed and dreary. When the object of his infatuation was ready and willing for a good quick fuck or a short-lived fling, he didn’t have to care so much about them, but something long term—the very idea that Jaskier could be so fixated on one person drove him mad. It left Geralt knowing that he was capable of such devotion, but that he would never be the one on the receiving end of it.

Geralt dressed and dried. He’d rather be somewhere where he might not be alone with his thoughts. It was the same reason he so often slept with Roach in the stables, or fell asleep in the great room to his brothers’ chatter after supper. His room in the keep was not well used for lack of distraction these past few years.

Jaskier was sitting on the edge of the bed when he returned, his lute cradled in his arms. He looked up when Geralt entered and nodded. “There you are. It’s a wonder I recognized you under all of that dust. Just by the color, I could tell you took the clay road in. You look yourself now.”

Geralt sat and rolled up a piece of cheese in a bit of ham before shoving it in his mouth. “I look myself when I’m covered in mud the most. _You_ look yourself after a bath,” he argued.

“Maybe so, but you clean up good.”

There was a large clock in the hall outside the room. They could hear it tick through the thick wooden door, and likewise, through the heavy silence.

Geralt ate without a word, listening to the clock keeping pace. Now and then, Jaskier plucked at his lute, tuning and retuning the strings already in perfect pitch. His foot tapped against the bedframe as he swung it absently. Nervous energy before a show.

The clock chimed the hour and Jaskier cleared his throat. “The room is yours to hide away for the next few hours,” he announced. “You’re welcome, naturally, to come along with me to the party and watch me preform if you like, but if you prefer to rest after your journey, I put you under no obligation to atte—”

“I’ll come,” Geralt said, already on his feet.

Jaskier fumbled with his lute. “O-oh. That’s brilliant. But I—erm, I haven’t really got anything for you to borrow. To wear, I mean. It’s still a wedding party, after all: people dressing up smart, lots of duke and duchess folks in tiaras … big … haa-ats.”

But as Geralt looked towards Jaskier’s bag, his eyes caught the edge of something green sitting rumpled on the bed. He crossed to it and picked it up, revealing the green shirt he’d worn at the last party.

Jaskier blanched.

“Couldn’t I wear this again?” Geralt asked. He knew there were some high-bred snobs who did not care for wearing the same costume to multiple social events for reasons that escaped him, owed to fashion and money and mixed-up, impractical rules surrounding status, but he was of another breed who wore the same shirt until it unravelled at the seams. “Do you have the rest of it still?” He looked meaningfully toward the bags.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, well I’m afraid I already sold the rest back for travel expenses. That’s what I meant—of course—about not having anything for you. It’d be bad form to show up in your green sle— _shirt_ sleeves. Sorry, green sleeves _are_ the fashion, but there are still rules. Aren’t there still rules? Right! If you absolutely insist, you may borrow my vest to wear with it; I think it ought to fit, if a bit snug. I still have my jacket to wear, and I can button it up.”

He must have been very nervous to preform, so quickly he began to trip over his own tongue. He backtracked his sentences like a nose-blind beagle on a crossing trail. It twisted Geralt’s gut to imagine what might have him so riled up. There was only one reason he could think of: Lady Greensleeves would be present at the celebration.

“You, button a jacket?” Geralt teased. A joke born of familiarity, trying to prove to a crowd that was not there to witness that _he_ knew Jaskier so well, he knew his dressing and his habits, trying to lay claim, perhaps to Jaskier. _I know you, can’t you see how I know you?_

Jaskier waved a hand at him and scoffed. “I can dress myself for public, thank you.”

“Can you really?”

Jaskier looked at himself, checking that yes, the buttons were done all the way to the top. Then, he removed his jacket and vest, tossed the vest to Geralt and redressed. “Get on with it,” he said.

Geralt removed his shirt and slipped the fine one over his head. As he did, he could smell the scent of Jaskier’s skin on it. He must have worn it. This time when he left, he would take the shirt with him, and the vest if he might slip away unnoticed. If this Lady won the night, he’d take what paltry consolation prize he would.

“How does it look?”

Jaskier was somewhere far away as he stared at Geralt in his vest. He did not respond to his query. Often Jaskier had received gifts from his lovers in the form of clothes, and Geralt hated to think the vest might be one such token. Was he regretting his offer now, to see another man dressed in a gift from the one who scorned him? If she’d given him gifts, there was perhaps a history there of a fine lady using Jaskier for her last fling of freedom before settling down with someone of rank. He was a _viscount_ for fuck’s sake—who could do better? Looking down at the white and green, he saw red.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier startled. “Sorry. I’ve had a long walk. I must be tired.”

Bullshit. Geralt had seen him walk _miles_ without a sweat.

“I need a drink!” Jaskier clapped. “One before the show to wake me up. The guests will be arriving any minute now, and I’m meant to be playing before they do. Have to warm up the room with a little ambience. Shall we?”

He was one foot out the door before Geralt could breathe a word.

Geralt sat at one of the lower feasting tables with the other guests as the early half of the night wore on. He sat to one end, keeping to himself and his mug while the others crowded together, twittering, toasting, and offering their congratulations. Jaskier stood to the side with a small band of musicians, playing gentle music. His jacket glittered under the torchlight. He was radiant, with his glowing skin kissed by the sun, and his cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. As with every party, he was the sole focus of Geralt’s attention. But unlike the parties before, Jaskier’s eyes were roaming around the room aimlessly. He did not turn to Geralt and wink or check in as he was wont to do. In fact, he avoided looking at him at all.

“She must be here,” one of the guests whispered down the table, pointing toward the band. “Look at him, searching the tables. He’s got to be looking for her among the crowd.”

“No, no!” one of her peers hissed. “He would never give the game away! He’s looking at everyone to avoid singling out anyone. Two gold to one, he’s not looking at her at _all.”_

Geralt leaned closer to listen.

“So many in green, how shall we know her?”

A giggle. “My bet is that she’ll be someone _not_ wearing green to avoid suspicion.”

“Oh no, not so! It’d be far more suspicious to be wearing another color!”

The twittering guests broke into muted chuckles and hid behind their fans and hands and handkerchiefs. Geralt looked up to see whether Jaskier had heard. Their table was rather near the band, after all. Jaskier had finally looked back at him, his face tight with apprehension.

So it was true.

A man stood from the head table and raised his goblet high. “Shall we commence with the festivities then?” he asked.

A resounding cheer answered his query.

“Band!” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s have a dance!”

Jaskier plastered a smile on his face and at once the music picked up. Within three songs, there was no room for conversation. The guests were too busy dancing up and down the room, and Geralt could hardly catch a word of what they said as they skipped in and out of hearing. He remained seated with the rest of the wallflowers, drinking to pass the time, watching Jaskier play.

Still he tried to puzzle out who Lady Greensleeves might be. He wished he hadn’t listened to the gossip before, for now he could not bring himself to rule out the beautiful women in red, blue, and yellow. Before there had only been the women in green to worry over. Of course she would be dressed in another color if she wished to send a message to Jaskier, to further convince him she did not care for him. But if she was the teasing kind, as so many of Jaskier’s lovers tended to be, she might _still_ dress in green to make him suffer.

He sat and stewed much of the night, watching people dance and sit, dance and sit, cycling between conversation and frolic. Whenever Jaskier’s eyes lingered too long on any woman in particular, he’d pay closer attention to her awhile. Before the night was out, he wanted to find her. At the very least he wanted to know why this elusive creature did not return Jaskier’s affection. Let her make her case. For his friend’s sake, he might do what he could to convince her otherwise. He would leave his friend happy or make a fool of himself trying.

Twice, Geralt saw him watching an appealing woman in a rose-red gown for the duration of a song. He observed her closely. She was a dainty thing with butter-yellow hair, soft green eyes, and bowed pink lips. She was by far the best dancer of the night, agile on her feet, with an evident grace. A lovely thing. Jaskier could almost definitely fall for a star as bright.

Geralt made his move.

Before the next song was announced, he asked her to dance. She was surprised by his request, obviously aware of his profession by the look of his eyes and hair, but there was an adventurous spark in her that made her accept his hand. That spark was very attractive in Jaskier’s eyes, he well knew. She was a viable candidate.

It was the latter half of the night and the music had grown mellow. Lovers had begun to take their turn on the floor. The bride and groom were in the middle for much of it, making sickly doting eyes at each other, becoming the subject of much friendly jeering. Those without someone to hold were beginning to make their own sorrows known, huddled together in solidarity over newly-filled plates and mugs at the darker tables. One such person raised their mug into the air.

“Let’s have a verse of Greensleeves!”

A chorus of applause waved through the attendees as shouts of agreement rang through the halls. Someone started a chant. Feet stamped the ground, hands and fists battered the tables, and Jaskier looked like a man with his neck on the executioner’s block. His eyes closed, welcoming the inevitable, and the struck the first note to cheers.

And so Geralt lead the fine young woman onto the floor with timing blessed by the gods above. With her dancing and listening to the song so closely, he would be able to observe her reaction, to gage whether or not this was the right one. He thought he already knew, as Jaskier’s eyes followed them to the middle of the room, wide and incredulous. Then, he turned away.

At first, the song was very performative. Jaskier’s lilting voice gave only the impression of a man scorned by love, as if it was a song written by another, and he himself had never known such a heartache in all his glowing, innocent life. He merely recounted the lyrics, striding up and down the length of his imaginary stage, a turn, and a dreamy smile on his face.

However, time lent honesty. His singing turned momentarily dull, then gave way to earnest melancholy. He now openly stared at Geralt and his partner, the words falling from his lips like a confession in the priest’s sacramental cabinet.

So it was her. Geralt looked at the woman dancing in his arms, acting as if she had not a care at all in the world, blind to Jaskier’s piercing gaze. She looked quite young up close: hardly twenty. Years and years—half his life, Jaskier had said. But then, he was prone to hyperbole. He might have guessed she’d be a childhood sweetheart, but Jaskier would’ve already graduated university by the time she was born. He huffed silently. What a cradle-robber.

“No green?” he asked conversationally, tapping the shoulder of her dress where his hand rested.

She smiled. “I never wear green. My complexion is too yellow to allow it. I look much better in red and blue, so I’ve been told.”

“Isn’t that backwards to the fashion?”

She shrugged. “I suppose it must be, but my mother would never allow it. She’s far too sensible. I did ask for a green dress when everyone was getting theirs, but she continued to fuss about how sickly it’d make me look. I can only dream of wearing green, like the rest. My friends tease me about it. One was kind enough to allow me to borrow one of hers for a party, but I really did look a sight.”

 _I’ll bet_ , Geralt thought. Nothing but false modesty.

As she turned under his arm, he smiled and asked, “Would you know anything about this Lady Greensleeves? The one from the song?”

She laughed as he gave her a slight dip, and Geralt could see the crease in Jaskier’s brow all the way across the room. “No,” she replied. “But I envy her. I would love to be immortalized in a song sung in all the great cities of the Continent. She must be _very_ pretty indeed. Why, do you think me very pretty, sir? Enough to belong to such a lovely song?” She batted her eyes flirtatiously at him, smiling with such charming, apple-red cheeks.

At that very moment, Geralt threw away any plans he’d had. For hours he’d imagined different scenarios in which he might convince the Lady Greensleeves to give Jaskier a chance, but he couldn’t lead such a heartless creature into Jaskier’s arms. That had been her whole reason for leading him on, from the very beginning! Jaskier was famous across the Continent, his songs belonging to the scope of the landscape and its history, born and bred in and of the most fantastic events that chronicled every change. She’d batted her eyes, smiled sweetly, and danced for him—all for a song! How many had Jaskier written for her before she’d written him off? And now, to be dancing to this song of his anguish with such a peaceful expression—!

“You haven’t said anything awhile,” she said, breaking him from his stupor. She laughed. “Do you really find me so pretty? I’m flattered by your silent staring.”

Sometime in the midst of all the dancing, the great circle had turned, and they had come close to the band. Geralt looked up, finally having heard the absence of singing. What he saw shook him to his core.

Tears were rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks, his striking blue eyes made all the more striking, rimmed with red. His hands had stopped on the lute. The band was slowly petering out from the sixth verse. With some confusion, the couples dropped their hands, all eyes turning toward the musicians to seek out the source of the disturbance. Geralt let go of the woman’s hand, unconsciously reaching out to him.

Then Jaskier ran.

One of the starchier servants called after him, protesting that his set was meant to go on another hour, per his contract. Geralt pushed the man aside. “He needs a break,” he grumbled. The servant tried again to protest, but he was cut off by a forceful grip to his collar as Geralt pulled him nose to nose. “He needs a _break,”_ Geralt hissed. The ballroom was a buzz with whispers and hushed gossip as Geralt hurried after his friend. He’d deal with the rest later.

The passage was dark and unfamiliar. In addition, Jaskier had got a head start. Geralt hunted him as he hunted a beast on the run, but the end resulting situation would be much different. An apology first for dancing with his Lady, but after, he had to tell him what he’d learned. It would hurt him, but it was better that he knew. Or maybe his heart was beating too loudly in his ears, wishing for Jaskier to find some fault with her.

He heard a discordant twang echo in the distance. Geralt followed the sound, turning a corner into another passage. This one was open to the air and lined with intermittent archways, looking out on a modest courtyard. In an arc of moonlight, he saw the head of Jaskier’s lute, discarded on the bare stone floor.

Geralt stopped dead in his pursuit. There it sat. The lute he’d watched Jaskier lovingly clean and polish so many nights and mornings, diligently tuning and packing in his case was left tossed on the floor, as if nothing more than dead weight slowing him down. He hesitated, then he made up his mind and snatched it up, tugging the strap around his shoulder and running on. The blood ran cold in his veins and his heart made its home in his stomach, heavy and broken. For Jaskier to throw his lute aside … it would be a burdensome love most devout.

Geralt stopped at the end of the passage. It opened onto two halls, each leading back into the main, covered part of the building. He was about to go left when he heard a soft sob come from behind. Then he turned, walking slowly back. His boots rustled in the grass as he stepped into the courtyard.

Jaskier had been right: it was a modest garden. The courtyard was not as grand as the many he’d seen on his visits accompanying Jaskier’s high-profile concerts. It had only the bare essentials. There was a pond, but no fountain, the grass was trimmed and lush but the property was too small for showy lawns. There were rosebushes, but every house had roses. The baron had not lived there long enough to specialize his garden.

But there was a bench. And kneeling beside it, he found the sobbing bard.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier flinched and raised his head. He looked like a child caught with his fingers in the sugar bowl, so frightened at being found.

Geralt’s throat went dry. “I … I’m sorry,” he said. He could not bring himself to step closer.

Jaskier sniffed and wiped at his eyes, trying to regain whatever dignity he had left. “And _why_ exactly are you sorry, Geralt?” he asked, his voice dripping with irritation.

“I danced with her. Your Lady from the song. And she was flirting.”

Jaskier glared at him. “I told you! There is no her!” he barked. An obvious effort to save face, even as the game was up. “And I don’t _care_ who flirts with you. You have a right to dance with anyone you like. Dance with the entire ballroom!” He hammered his fist on the seat of the bench and brought his forehead to the cool marble, failing to quell another sob. “Mother of—I knew this would happen,” he muttered under his breath. “One day, I just knew.”

Geralt slowly put one foot forward, creeping nearer as he tried to speak in hushed tones. “I promise, I didn’t want to dance with her. I saw you looking at her across the way, and I thought she might be the one. I wanted to talk to her, find out why she left.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier mumbled, his head wrapped in his arms. “Just go away. Don’t look at me. I know I look pathetic and I don’t want anyone to see me. Just let me cry my bleeding heart out in privacy.”

Geralt set a hand on his back, felt him jerk under his touch. But he didn’t move away. He’d never seen Jaskier in such a state before, and he wouldn’t leave him. Not now, at his lowest, at his loneliest. He shouldn’t have to cry alone. Geralt wrapped his arms around his bard’s shoulders. He turned him, guiding his head to the crook of his neck with one hand, stroking his back comfortingly with the other. Even amidst his own grief, he could not help thinking his hair was so very soft.

“Please,” Geralt whispered. “Forgive me. I only wanted to do what I could; try and convince her to see your merits. I thought … if I only found the words, I might convince her to give you another try. But from what I gathered, she only wanted you to write her a song. Now she’s got what she wanted. Jaskier, she’s not for you,” he sighed. “She’s a snake. You deserve a swan.” He choked, listening to himself speak. It was a lot of poetic garbage, but how else did one distract a poet from his sorrows? He would try, for him.

“And what if I want a wolf?”

Geralt looked down, feeling Jaskier pull away from his embrace. Jaskier was staring up at him, looking a sorry sight, but his eyes were fierce.

“What?”

Jaskier reached his hands up. He gripped Geralt’s forearms, bunching green satin between his fingers. “These sleeves. All I’ve seen for months are these sleeves. They’re everywhere, taunting me, and that stupid song in everyone’s throats, throwing it all back in my face.” He shook his head. “Did you even _listen_ to my song, Geralt?”

Geralt gazed back guiltily. He’d been, admittedly, distracted.

Jaskier laughed, grim, broken. “They all sing it wrong. There are so many different versions of the songs I sing, like a great game of Gossip. Someone sings it, someone else mishears a line and sings it a little different. _And so cried the Witcher: he can't be beat,_ or _Broke down my flute_ , as if I’d ever touch a woodwind. And the worst offender of all: _And who but my Lady Greensleeves._ It’s _lovely Greensleeves_ —there is no Lady, but that’s the version they all want to sing.”

Geralt frowned. “Why does it make any difference?” he grunted.

 _“Because,”_ Jaskier replied, “There _is_ no _Lady.”_

Jaskier searched Geralt’s eyes, looking for understanding. Then, finding none, he choked out another laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, gods above, I really am and idiot. They cursed me with you, didn’t they? It’s just as you said, so why not follow through on what I said as well? I’m already broken; might as well let it _all_ fall apart.”

“What are yo—”

Jaskier cut him off, throwing his arms around his neck and pressing their lips together. Geralt was too shocked to respond. “I love you,” Jaskier said, pulling away. He kissed him quickly, trying to make up for twenty years of longing before he could be denied. “I love you, Geralt,” he whimpered, kissing his cheek. “All this time, always.” He kissed his jaw, slipping as the tears began anew and his lip shook. His breath was hot against Geralt’s skin, and he could _feel_ Jaskier’s suppressed sobs, cut off as he tried to kiss his neck, but his lips were pulled too tightly in a grimace, unable to let go of his fear and heartache another moment longer, anticipating the forthcoming response. He buried his wet face in Geralt’s neck and cried, his hands fisted in the front of his shirt.

At once, everything came crashing down around him, and Geralt understood. Greensleeves. _His_ green sleeves. The song Jaskier had hummed that last night at the inn … Jaskier’s mortification as rumors spread, and all the talk was a reminder of him and his heartless lover. The sudden distance, the avoidance, then the scene he’d made fleeing when he saw Geralt with a girl laughing and flirting, smiling in his arms. He’d been backwards all night. And for much, much longer.

Jaskier turned his head to the side, afraid to look at him, but he could not run, trapped in Geralt’s arms. He was quiet now, not a sob or sniff.

“Oh, no,” Geralt moaned.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped back to attention with horror. “No, Geralt, please don’t say—!”

Geralt pulled his face back to the crook of his shoulder, stroking his hair. “No, no, I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I’m such an idiot.” He felt the tight coil of muscle freeze against him like a coiled spring, ready to burst free and run. He held Jaskier tighter, not willing to give him up. “Yes,” he whispered. “Of course I love you. All these years, Jaskier, it’s been you. All these years, I’ve loved you.”

He turned his head to kiss Jaskier’s temple. A hot tear ran down his own cheek and he felt the breath shudder in his chest. He kissed the wet, salty corner of Jaskier’s eye, his cheek, and buried his nose in his hair. For a moment, he just held him, tight as he could. And he could. This was allowed. Geralt held him for all he was worth, breathing him in and feeling the thrum of his heart against his chest.

And then, Jaskier was laughing.

Geralt pulled away. Heavy tears were still sliding down Jaskier’s face, but he was laughing, quite unable to stop. He took several, ragged breaths, and braced himself on Geralt’s forearms. When he settled, he stared at Geralt, eyes shining.

“You love me,” he said.

Geralt smiled. “I do.”

Jaskier shook his head, then settled back against Geralt’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him, felt the weight of him there. “You do,” he sighed. “I guess we’re _both_ idiots; we’ve wasted so many years.”

“Not wasted. I enjoyed them,” Geralt protested. And he had. Just being with Jaskier had been enough, even when it was torture.

“We could have enjoyed them so much more.”

Geralt laughed. As always, Jaskier was right. He pulled them to their feet, lending Jaskier a hand standing up. “No time like the present. There’s a party inside: lots of wine to toast with, a band to dance to. Dark corners to hide away in,” he added.

Jaskier scoffed in mock indignation. “And make a spectacle of ourselves? It’s poor taste to flaunt a new relationship at a wedding, even if the celebration lasts a week after the ceremony. The revelation of the true identity of ‘Lady Greensleeves’ would be a scandalous insult to the newlyweds, outshining them at their own venue!”

“Good,” Geralt said, chuckling. “They could use a scandal. His title’s so _squeaky clean_ , nobody would remember it if we left quietly, but if we went back now, everyone would remember that _Lady_ Greensleeves was found at the party of Baron What’s-His-Name, wouldn’t they?”

Jaskier’s red face lit up with a mischievous grin. “We’d be doing him a real favor.”

“A few dances to end the night, a quiet scene in some corner, then off to bed: a good day’s work done.”

Jaskier smirked up at him. “If you think for one minute your work is done before dawn, you’re a bigger idiot than I ever thought.”

“Ambitious. Aren’t you _tired_ from your _long walk_ this afternoon?”

“I’m sure I’ll find my second wind, sucking the air from your lungs in that corner.”

“Well then,” Geralt purred, “We’d better get to it.”

Fashion trends come and go, winter turns to spring, and the gossip of yesterday is forgotten tomorrow. But one thing was certain: nobody ever forgot the sight of the famed Jaskier, wrapped in the great arms of his green-clad witcher, stealing a kiss as they danced in the middle of Baron Mazur’s ballroom to the final chorus of _Greensleeves_ on the last night of his wedding party.

Art by [the lovely Dasha](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/)

[Tumblr Post](https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/635430343919501312/got-an-email-from-daryshkart-in-my-inbox-today)

**Author's Note:**

> Had to drop everything for an evening and bang this out once I got the idea stuck in my head. This was supposed to be so much shorter. I don't know how to write short. Send help. Or send Beauty and the Beast AU fic recs, that'll do too.
> 
> Mazur was a random Polish name I found on google, but it might've been a subconscious reminder of the principal from the Goofy Movie, who I only just remembered the name of as I was typing this note. "Principal May-zuh-urrrrrr! 'sup bro?"
> 
> Next on the one-shot agenda, I wanna do a Sleeping Beauty AU based on That Scene. You know the one.
> 
> On the off chance any of y'all draw Geralt or Jaskier's sick threads, @ me on newly rebranded tumblr: rebrandedbard and I'll scream about it to you.
> 
> EDIT: November 21st, 2020
> 
> Now with art by Daryshkart on tumblr! Dreams do come true guys I'm sobbing. Remember to always tip your artists when you commission!


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